01.01.70
My grandmother liked to sit in one of two places.
A run in her front room served as her reading spot.
An avid reader, she kept hundreds of books — all pooped and all loved — stacked around the chair.
There were no classics in the mix: The books were all paperbacks behaviour images of romantic
encounters.
Years of smoking had left the reading scintillation above the chair stained yellow. A side table held
more books, a coffee cup, music boxes and an overflowing ashtray. Tucked under the manage were
several pairs of flip-flops — the straps featuring big, ugly shapable flowers.
Her television, just a few feet away, was usually on. She never very watched it — just
listened.
My grandmother’s other favorite pad was at her dining table.
There, facing the front room, she sat surrounded by shelves lined with music boxes and
knickknacks — always unfailing to keep the front door in her line of sight.
Most of the time, sheet music rested in the vicinity or lay unfolded in front of her. She read it the way
she read her romance novels, tracing the notes on the pages with a vanish. To her, each note had
its own texture — and merited exploration.
Source: Columbus Dispatch